ANA: You mean gossiping ad nauseam in university corridors, or seedy little cafés in the centre of town. Accusing Maoists of being Trotskyites, Leninists of being Stalinists, socialists of being revisionists, and anyone who didn’t agree with you of being Fascists, Nazis or secret police.
KATHIE: (Exultant) This was life, Victor Hugo! This was youth, Karl Marx! Culture, politics, books, charities, prisons, revolutions, executions. Never a dull moment! You didn’t feel empty for a single second, did you?
SANTIAGO: I’d no time for that, Kathie.
KATHIE: (Taking him by the hand) And all those girlfriends you had …
SANTIAGO: ‘Girlfriend’ is a petit-bourgeois expression. It’s quite inappropriate. Those of us in the Party involved in the struggle call them comrades.
KATHIE: (Eager, hopeful) And your comrades, who followed you, copied your manuscripts for you, brought you meals in prison, supported you and co-operated with you, simply because they were your comrades — they too became affected and enriched by that wonderfully varied life you led, did they not?
ANA: (Still affectionate and sympathetic) No, they didn’t. Well, they didn’t, did they, Mark Griffin?
KATHIE: When you lead such a life when you’re young, you go on to do great things.
(A doubt crosses her mind. She looks at SANTIAGO suddenly, disconcerted.)
And yet …
ANA: And yet, Mr Mark Griffin, Mr Victor Hugo, Mr Karl Marx, you still haven’t done any of those great things. Why not?
SANTIAGO: (Distressed) Why, after all that preparation for doing great things …
ANA: … you only succeeded in doing paltry little things …
SANTIAGO: What happened to all those books you were going to write?
ANA: What happened to those political parties you were going to join?
SANTIAGO: What happened to all those strikes you were going to organize, those revolutions you were going to mastermind and incite?
ANA: What happened to those women you were always dreaming about, those affairs you were going to have, that life of luxury you were going to lead?
SANTIAGO: What happened to those intellectual, social and sexual tours de force you were going to bring off?
KATHIE: What happened, Victor Hugo?
ANA: What happened, Karl Marx?
KATHIE: What happened, Mark Griffin?
(SANTIAGO looks to right and left, searching desperately to find an answer.)
SANTIAGO: I married the wrong woman. She was no help to me, she never understood me. She dragged me down by her ignorance, pettiness and stupidity. That’s what happened! I married a miserable idiot who thwarted me, ruined me, and finally emasculated me.
KATHIE: (Radiantly, embracing him) I knew it. I knew it. So it happened to you as well. We’re so alike, we’ve so much in common. Neither of us knew how to choose. Our lives would have been so different, if we hadn’t married the way we did. But isn’t it wonderful we know each other, that we’ve so much in common, Mark?
SANTIAGO: (Embracing her as well) You’re the comrade I should have had. You’d have understood me, you’d have been my stimulus, my strength, and my spur. I needed someone to believe in me, someone to be my bulwark against apathy and despair, someone to …
(A little laugh from ANA forces SANTIAGO to look at her.) And I didn’t just make a mistake the first time! I made one the second time too. Adèle was no help to me either, she demanded things I didn’t have, or couldn’t give. She upset all my values, caused havoc in my life, she humiliated me …
ANA: (Pulling a face at him) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
SANTIAGO: That’s what happened. My wife administered the poison, and my lover delivered the coup de grâce.
KATHIE: That’s exactly what happened to me with Bepo, Ken, Kike, Rivarola, Hans, Sapito Saldívar, Harry and Abel. We didn’t choose our lovers very well either, did we! None of them understood us, none of them stimulated us, inspired us or spurred us on. All they did was thwart us, ruin us and emasculate us.
SANTIAGO: (Looking into her eyes, full of excitement) Ah, isn’t it wonderful we know each other, that we’ve so much in common, Kathie?
KATHIE: Then you’ll rescue me from the skating rink, the barbecues and the parties, you’ll deliver me from that infernal surfing.
SANTIAGO: With me, you’ll read books, you’ll see every exhibition, and attend every concert.
KATHIE: I’ll bring food to you in prison, I’ll copy out your manuscripts — for you, I’ll learn to plant bombs, to kill.
SANTIAGO: We’ll criticize novels, poetry and drama. You’ll be my strength, my inspiration, the antidote to all my doubts. I’ll read you whatever I write and you’ll give me ideas, words and subjects for theses.
ANA: And who’ll wash the dishes, scrub the floors and change the nappies? Who’ll do the cooking?
KATHIE: Together we’ll learn Chinese, Greek, and German …
SANTIAGO: … Russian, Japanese.
ANA: And will your cock crow every two months? Three months? Six months?
KATHIE: A life of love and art …
SANTIAGO: Revolution, and ecstasy.
KATHIE: Ah! Ah!
SANTIAGO: And when I hold you in my arms naked, we’ll be like emperors in paradise.
ANA: Isn’t that one of Victor Hugo’s expressions?
KATHIE: I love you, I love you. Oh Mark, say you love me too.
SANTIAGO: I do, I do. And tonight my cock will crow nine times, Adèle.
(He kisses her passionately. ANA laughs, but her laugh is stifled by the voice of JUAN, who is going back home, drunk as a lord, with a pistol in his hand.)
JUAN: I’ll kill all nine of them. First the eight samurai, then you. Then myself. Christ Almighty! Things can’t go on like this. (Catches sight of his reflection.) What are you looking at, you cuckold? Cuckold, cuckold, cuckold. Because that’s what you are, Johnny darling! A bloody great cuckold with horns like a billy-goat. A cuckold! (His voice breaks off into a sob.) How can I go on living? What have I ever done to you to make you behave like this, you bitch? Was it because I was a surfer? Did it exasperate you that much? And yet you have the nerve to call me a fool. Do I do anyone any harm with my surfing? What’s wrong with liking the sport? Or is it preferable to get plastered, or to smoke pot, or give oneself a fix? I’m a pretty wholesome guy in case you hadn’t realized. You think I’m a drunk? I drink just enough to have a good time. You think I’m a junkie? Well, I’m not. I smoke the odd fag. I roll myself a joint at times to give myself a lift. But you’d rather I was a drunk, or a drug addict or even a queer — anything but a surfer, wouldn’t you, you bitch? You were envious of me, you couldn’t stand the success I had, in Lima, Hawaii, South Africa, Australia. Yes, you bitch! I was riding waves nine feet, twelve feet, twenty feet high, while you were busy having it off behind my back. So you even did it with Abel. You thought I’d be really cut up about that, didn’t you? Well, you’re wrong, he’s the one I’m least worried about, because at least with him it stays in the family. I’d have had his wife years ago if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t, because she’s got hair under her arms and I can’t stand women who don’t shave under their arms — ugh, they make me throw up! Things can’t go on like this! Dear, oh dear. (His voice breaks into another sob, as he gradually becomes more and more fuddled.) You’ll never be able to look people in the face again, Johnny darling. How are you going to walk down the street, you great cuckold, with those enormous antlers crashing into the walls and knocking people over? The weight of them will drag you to the bottom of the ocean. You can win all the championships you like now, Johnny, you can ride the most treacherous waves. But what good will it do? You’re a marked man. And you’ll never live this down till the day you die, even after you’re dead, people will still be talking about it. Johnny. Johnny? Which Johnny do you mean? Ah yes, him. The one whose wife was always deceiving him. It’s worse than original sin, worse than cancer. I’d sooner go blind, catch leprosy, or syphilis. I’d sooner burn in hell. Eight times, Johnny! What a whore! What a whore! (Sobs.) What if she lied to you? What if it’s all a story, just to make your life a misery? She hates you, Johnny, she hates you. And do you know why? Because she’s got no charm, whereas you’re simpático, you’re a real darling, you’re everybody’s favourite, and women go crazy about you. Why do you hate me so much, you whore? Is it because I didn’t spend my life in the bank, like my old man and Abel? What on earth for? Just to make more money? What do I need more money for? I prefer to make the most of life, while it lasts. If people want to work, let them. Let them go on coining it in, wearing themselves out. When the old man dies, I’ll blow every last cent he leaves me. Just like that — in next to no time. Do you want me to waste my life, slogging my guts out so I can die a millionaire? And leave a fortune to my children — when they aren’t even my children anyway? (Sobs.) Or are you going to try and tell me they are now, you whore! How could you, how could you! What a daft, what an idiotic thing to do — sleeping around like that just because you’re jealous of my prick. None of those women ever meant anything to me, anyone would have seen that except you. I just did it to pass the time of day, I often did it out of politeness, out of consideration, I didn’t want to appear rude or ungracious. You ought to feel proud of me not jealous, you bitch.